C5

In the courtyard below, as the sun began to dip into a purple twilight sky, King Robert walked out of his palace gates in triumph. The cheering throng swarmed around him and swept down the hillside toward his pavilion, shouting for wine, bread, meat, and women until they filled every nook and cranny of his encampment. They climbed trees with fruit hanging ripe enough to eat, tore down tents and flung them aside like litter, stripped branches bare so that they could pull down the banners flying overhead to use for firewood, smashed pots and pans, overturned tables and benches, trampled flowers and crushed fountains, all so long as it served their need. Even children scrambled about amidst the rioting crowd, laughing and screaming in glee as they pelted their elders with rocks. The king watched impassively while his people destroyed everything worth saving within fifty yards of his royal tent; afterward he sat down upon a fallen tree stump and leaned back upon its roots. His mood was light and jovial, and he laughed heartily whenever someone threw a stone at him.

It took half a day to restore order, yet when dusk fell a hundred fires burned brightly along the walls of Redgate Keep and a thousand torches lit the streets. It was good to be king, thought Robert, watching the city burn. "Robert Strong," he shouted across the field. "King Robert Strong!"

"The Lion," replied a voice behind him; it was Ned Stark. "If you call yourself strong, then you are truly a lion, but you're also a fool."

They sat together upon another fallen log, sharing its warmth while a dozen guards circled around them. All of those men were sworn to serve Ned, but only he held the sword; his companions numbered four and two. He wore his armor beneath his cloak again tonight, yet there was a new steel hilt in his belt instead of wooden. "Aye, I am a fool. But a brave fool." Robert sighed happily. "Do not mock me, Stark, I beg you."

"I am not mocking," Ned assured him earnestly. "You know it is true. You are as weak as a child compared to the likes of Renly or Stannis or Joffrey, and when the war is done it will all end. The Night's Watch will take back their lands, and Winterfell as well. Roose Bolton will return north, with Walder Frey to rule with him in his own hall, and all that remains of your holdfast save your small castle by the river. Your sister's lands shall be returned too, with the duchy of Tarth, whilst Tommen rules the Seven Kingdoms for your young nephew Jon Arryn's bastard boy Tysha's heir... and you yourself will go south with your brothers where they can keep an eye on you... but no man's power extends so far that he cannot be taken unawares... nor can anyone's reach so long that he cannot fall. I would not see your head upon the block. Do you understand?"

"No," said Robert stubbornly. "All this talk of heads on spikes makes me hungry for honeycakes."

Ned smiled slightly. "That sounds like something Arya would say." He hesitated. "Robert, do you recall the night we spoke in this very wood? That was when we decided to join forces against the Freys, and later we marched to Riverrun. We were friends then, though it seemed unlikely at the time. Now look at us, each sworn to separate kings—"

"I have a great many foes now, Ned. Not just Raffi or the Bastard of Baelor either, nor even Robb or the King in the North. My uncle Aeron has joined the rebels in the Vale, and my aunt Catelyn leads her son Brandon to their banner. And my cousin Eddard is dead, slain with my father's blade..."

"Yet it is your duty to them all to protect their lives. To the point where you would die for them."

Robert shook his head sadly. "No, Ned. I would rather die for my sister and my nephews. They matter most."

"So you must. I promise you that you will not be forgotten. When the battle is done, the tale of Robert Baratheon will be sung for a thousand years, yet I fear you will be overlooked."

"Overlooked?"

"Robb, you have pledged your troth to the Lady Catelyn and promised to wed her, but you seem not to care much if she lives or dies..."

"She knows her peril. She will be careful."

"And Renly? Is he to be married off to some maiden whose name he does not even know?"

"... he'll make the best wife he can for himself, as soon as he grows some hair to speak of."

Renly shrugged. "What else matters?"

Cersei looked at her brother with a mixture of admiration and pity. "Is that what you believe in marriage as well? That love should conquer all things? How touching, how noble of you both." She turned away before she could see Renly flinch at the words.

For his part, the Kingslayer found it hard to look at his twin without wincing. He had been the first to leave her bed, and when he tried to take her again, she had cast him out with scorn and revulsion. For three days he had ridden alone through the countryside, haunted by memories of their tryst under the Red Moon and their shared dreams of glory in battle to come. By the time he rejoined his companions, they were camped beside the River Moyle. There were no trees nearby, only grasslands and open water—and no woman at all, unless you counted his horse.

When he told them of Cersei's rejection, Jaime did not seem surprised or even particularly angry; only sad. Afterward, it seemed almost natural that he should find comfort in arms and in blood and in friendship. In the months since then he had grown bolder in all ways, taking up arms against any who would defy them, slaying one man after another with the ease born of many fights. He seemed to feel that the more enemies he slew, the fewer would remain who might seek revenge on the Kingslayer for Cersei's shame. His courage inspired Ser Loras Tyrell to take up his father's sword once more, while Ser Balon Swann resumed his studies at court, determined to prove himself worthy of being named Lord Commander someday. Only Ser Osmund Kettleblack refused to change his behavior. "The Kingslayer means to be king," Ser Osmond declared flatly. "He is no friend of mine."

Ser Kevan Lannister was no friend to Cersei either, but no matter how she despised him for his perfidy, she could not deny his wisdom. The Hand was wise enough to warn his king against folly. "We must not let pride blind us to the danger," he counseled her. "You have made enemies wherever you went with your crown of roses, yet here they surround you as if you are a princess. This realm would never have dared turn on you if you had been content with sitting on a golden throne like Highgarden's false queen. No, we must show them that they are wrong: that we are the true heirs of Valyria, the rightful masters of all these lands, that we deserve their respect. Let them see that we rule with honor and justice, that we are not tyrants but men of the cloth." So she yielded the regalia to her Hand. Yet the more often she saw the gold lion crowned above Ser Kevan's black robe, the more her heart yearned to claim them herself. Ser Kevan insisted that this defiance of custom was perilous, and that she must be certain to wear them whenever she chose to appear before her subjects in her own person. "Otherwise they may grow to doubt our claims to legitimacy," he warned her, "or begin to think of us as usurpers, rather than rulers in exile. The longer we wait to assert ourselves, the harder it will become, so you must choose your moment carefully, as I shall in choosing mine."

"How? By appearing in public every fortnight, to hear petitions and dispense charity?"

"Not every fortnight," Ser Kevan said patiently. "Only when there are important matters to discuss... such as taxes. You will want to raise a levy soon... you must raise a levy... and it will be better if you do it in secret... as you always planned. Once we announce a tax, it will be seen as an act of rebellion... but it need not be a large one. If we raise two pennies a week from every man-at-arms and knight, we will be able to buy sufficient food to keep us all alive."

"Two pence is too much! Every lord will refuse it and send his men home instead!"

Her husband laughed. "Oh yes, my lady. They all know it is a bad harvest. Even those who still hold lands outside the cities can see that their crops have failed."

Even so, there were lords who refused, but they were few and far between. Most of their vassals obeyed quietly, for their fear kept them in line; a threat of force was less effective on the landless peasantry. "Some are not afraid," Cersei pointed out angrily. Her father had raised taxes five times since the Conquest, and she knew what he did with the money... how the gold was spent, and where... "They will starve without us."

"You are right," her husband admitted reluctantly. "As you wish, however... I shall ask them to pay two pennies per man, instead of two pounds."

"Why two pennies? Why not one?"

"One is not enough... but two is too much... if we give more to the poor, then our rich subjects will rebel against us... they will insist upon free bread... which you know cannot be given. The peasants must eat, though... or else they will riot... and the common folk will rise up in support... and all will descend into chaos... but the nobles will call themselves kings again, and the Seven Kingdoms will crumble beneath their rule. No, they cannot expect anything for nothing... but neither can they demand too high a price for their service. It is the only way. A little suffering, now and again, keeps everyone content." He frowned suddenly. "Will that make any difference to you?"

Cersei smiled. "It will be worth the sacrifice, my love." She loved him, though she wished sometimes that she could see past his face. Sometimes it seemed to her that Robert looked the same as ever. But other times the mask slipped and he looked at her with eyes that were empty. "My dear sweet Robert," she whispered. "I would do anything for you... but tell me truly... do you love me?"

"Of course I love you," he answered quickly. "I am your king."

"Then why are you giving me two pennies?"

"Because I love you," said Robert, "and you are mine to command... I mean you no harm. I swear it by all that I hold holy." He put his hands on hers and kissed them gently. "I only hope you love me too... I swear by the sun, moon, and stars."

She gazed fondly into his dark blue eyes, wondering how she had ever thought that he might be handsome. "There is no man alive I would not gladly serve," she said solemnly, "for so long as you live. My lord." She took his hand as she rose from her chair. "Come, let us go down and visit your father."

Lord Tywin was lying back in a gilded litter, surrounded by servants with bowls of honeyed wine and platters of fruits. When the Kingslayer entered, he glanced up at Cersei with a faint smile, and nodded her forward. The Kingslayer bowed low, and offered her his arm. As they crossed the chamber together, Cersei heard her father mutter something about traitors; she had expected some sort of protest, but her father merely waved her forward as if he had meant to say something different entirely. She wondered whether he could sense the truth of what her brother had done. Perhaps he sensed treachery, but he did not believe in it. Or perhaps it was just that he felt so secure that he feared not falling ill himself. Whatever it was, Cersei did not care; for once her fears overrode her pride.

Tywin Lannister lived alone in a tower room near the top of Maegor's Holdfast. At eighty years old, his legs were bent in at the knees and thin as sticks, and when he sat on a cushion it was usually only a pillow that supported his backside. One shoulder stuck out stiffly and crookedly from beneath a cloak that seemed to fit poorly even on his bony shoulders. He wore a plain doublet of dull grey wool that hung heavy on him. His beard was snow white, but only a handful of hairs remained on each side of his head. His fingers were gnarled like old tree branches. He seemed to age ten years since the day Tyrion brought him news of his son's death. On that day, Tywin had looked to die, yet somehow he survived—but he had lost everything else with it. He had known it from the moment they arrived to carry him out to meet them, though he had pretended otherwise. From the moment she had laid her eyes upon him she had known that it was hopeless. She should never have come.

His gaze was cold and hard as iron. "Cersei..." he murmured, "come to sit with your father, child." His voice was dry and hoarse, like a rusty saw. "Your brothers should have been here sooner."

"Gods rot them both," muttered Ser Gregor as he helped their mother up the stairs and into a crimson silk chaise with purple velvet cushions. "The boy is not the only one who has betrayed you, Father. Your daughter will betray you as well, when the time comes."

Lord Tywin gave no sign of hearing him. "I see Robb Stark in you," he told Cersei, as he sank onto a stool beside his bedchamber window. "And Jon Arryn."

"Robb is taller than I am," observed Cersei, "and thinner in the waist, and he does not wear a patch over one eye."

"Aye, and wiser," Lord Tywin replied sadly. "But that is a small comfort, is it not?"

Catelyn Stark had died four years ago, slain by wolves along the Winterfell road while trying to protect Bran and Rickon. Catelyn's youngest sons, twins named Brandon and Edmarr, had been fostered by the Starks after their father's murder. They returned to King's Landing last autumn as knights, pledged to House Lannister.

Brandon was twenty-two years old now and a fine young man; tall, lean, and strong, with hair as red as his sister Sansa's fair locks, though it was streaked with grey at his temples. Edmarr was older, thirty-four, and had served in many battles, including the War of the Five Kings, when he commanded a company of archers that slew three of Ned Stark's rangers singlehanded during the Battle of Horn Hill. Both Brandon and Edmarr were sworn swords of the Kingsguard, sworn to defend the royal family against any foe, foreign or domestic... except in one case: they could not kill Lady Lysa Arryn, for she was wed to Prince Joffrey. Their vows barred them from killing the woman she loved, but she could not be harmed either, not unless her own prince ordered it done. Thus when Catelyn Stark fell, her eldest son was killed before his eyes... and her younger sons' lives were spared because they swore to obey another.

Ned Stark's blood ran hot and fast, but his children were slow and careful. All of them grew slowly, and carefully... they were born slower and died slower still. Catelyn Stark's eldest son was murdered on the steps of the Red Keep whilst the second babe still nursed inside her womb; a girl was born dead on the third try. Three babes dead, and three boys born... so far, they were only half mad. And now two more, a twin girl and a boy who would soon be called Jon Snow. Only one thing could account for the oddity of their births... yet no man dared speak the name aloud in Ned Stark's hearing lest he find himself sleeping rough that night, in the stable or under the walls.

The queen knew nothing of this of course... or rather, she must have known something, but she chose to ignore it. After all, what did it matter to her? Her husband was dead and gone, but she lived, and all the rest was folly. She had no doubt that he had spoken with Ned about it, but whatever was passed between them had remained a secret between them.

He knew why Ned did what he did, and so did Robert Baratheon... but neither he nor his brother believed that such knowledge made them safe. The Starks always protected their secrets better than most men, but their secrets were no protection against their enemies.

Robert liked to boast that he was no fool. "No man is an island entire of itself," he used to say. "Every man's mind is bound to the common thoughts that move men, or thinks them." If you shared your ideas openly enough, you risked being overheard; if you acted on your private beliefs boldly enough, you courted disaster; if you allowed your thoughts to remain your own, you left yourself vulnerable. So said one of the lesser sayings of Locke... or Cicero... or Seneca... there were dozens of thinkers whom Robert quoted on the subject, for he liked to quote others whenever possible. Yet he still followed none of their advice. Not only did he share his plans freely amongst his council, but he often discussed strategy and tactics right out in front of his troops... for example, the moment that the Lannisters marched to Riverrun. It is said that a good general can keep two armies at war for years without ever meeting them; the longer they stay at home thinking up clever new ways to defeat each other, the harder it becomes for those actually fighting on the field to come up with fresh schemes to surprise them.

So it was with Robert Baratheon, and so it had been from the start. His great strength lay not in his wits but in his courage, and his courage had always been as great as his ambition. He had led his army to victory after victory, until the realm was filled with tales of his prowess as commander and leader. But now his victories seemed less frequent, and his defeats more crushing. Even as the king of Storm's End he found it difficult to bring peace to Westeros, and when the northmen began marching south again to join Robb Stark, it seemed that the dream was shattered once and forever.

In the end it came down to the simple question of honor. Was it honorable to take a wife by force when it suited him, dishonorable to refuse a woman's love when she begged for mercy? To be sure, there were many in the Seven Kingdoms who would answer yes; to be even more certain, the king's own councillors agreed, so long as they were speaking in whispers behind closed doors. In public it became increasingly clear that no one cared for Sansa's plea for clemency. When the time finally came to decide the matter, Robert turned to the only person in the court who appeared willing to give her a voice in the matter... his little sister, Margaery Tyrell.

When she first stepped forward, Sansa was surprised by how tall and beautiful she looked. Margaery was fifteen and had started taking the maiden's veil two months past; yet despite her lack of experience she managed to appear regal and dignified. Her gown of silver silk flowed like water around her slender form, and her dark hair cascaded loose about her shoulders. She carried herself proudly and walked with stately steps. Sansa recalled how she had tried walking like that, just days ago, when she had hoped to win Littlefinger's favor. Now she realized just how false and foolish her efforts had been. No man looked twice at Margaery... but then, few women did look twice at Sansa either, except as some passing curiosity.

As Sansa stood beside Margaery at the high table in the Great Hall, watching the lords and ladies turn their heads and whisper behind their hands, she was reminded of the first time they had met. She had been twelve years old at that feast, dressed in a borrowed gown that did not fit very well, and her face had ached with shyness. Her cousin Joffrey had chosen to sit apart from his sisters and the other noble children, so as to be surrounded by adults and older children... which was when Sansa spotted him across the hall.

Joffrey had been ten years old and already quite large, though not yet grown into his limbs. He wore armor and a sword, and he drank wine as though he had never tasted anything finer. He laughed heartily when someone told him a rude jest, and he ate like he would eat forever; when he discovered Sansa staring at him, he waved and called out "Come closer!"

Sansa had run toward him, feeling her cheeks burn, hoping to hide her embarrassment by joining the others. Instead, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to his side. "You're too pretty to be sitting alone," he said. "Let me buy you a cup of wine."

She had accepted the cup, but it was not sweet wine that she sipped from her golden goblet... it was ale, sour and bitter. When Joffrey asked her if she thought his father might grant him permission to marry her instead of Myrcella, Sansa felt a flush rise up inside her, turning her neck hotter than the summer sun. "I'd rather die," she blurted out.

"Die?" Joffrey echoed incredulously. "Who are you calling 'die'? Die is for worms and spiders! You're a lady, aren't you? What do ladies die of?"

"Of being ugly," Sansa snapped back. For a moment it seemed as though she had wounded the boy terribly, but then he shrugged off the sting and clapped his big hands together. "That's true," he agreed readily. "What else?"

"Not wanting to be married to you," Sansa answered promptly.

"Oh?" He grinned wolfishly. "Well, maybe I'll let you live then," he declared merrily, and raised his cup in salute. A murmur ran through the crowd around them and laughter rippled amongst the knights, while the rest of the guests gave them a wide berth. "To living maidens! May we drink long and prosperously!"